


i know we've got our problems and it's probably me

by smokesque



Series: Klance Week 2016 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, It just kind of happened, Klanceweek2k16, Like very minor, M/M, Minor Violence, don't attack me, i did a nice thing, i didn't mean to hurt keith like this, one day i'll stop stealing my titles from song lyrics, still worth mentioning though, this ends nicely ok, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokesque/pseuds/smokesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance is the last stitch holding Keith together and he feels it coming undone with every new hole punched through the wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know we've got our problems and it's probably me

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from ['hold onto me'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODPgSDOgCHY) by mayday parade
> 
> this was exhausting and it ended up being a mess but prompt for day 2 was love/hate (this is shorter than i would have liked but i'm tired and severely lack writing abilities)
> 
> you can read this on my [tumblr](http://ailourophilic.tumblr.com/post/148498298392/day-2-of-klance-week-is-lovehate-and-i-wrote-this) and find out more about klance week [here](http://klanceweek.tumblr.com/).

Keith wants to hurt. To punch and kick and scratch until blood and bruises litter everything he sees. He wants to sharpen words like knives and drive them to the hearts of everyone he loves. He wants hatred to burn his tongue, leak out of his eyes, crawl across his skin and tear down anyone who gets too close. Keith wants to set himself on fire until nothing is left but ashes.

Lance is the only thing that cools Keith down. His hands are always cold when they press against Keith’s skin and Keith feels chills run up his spine and spike at the base of his neck. It’s foreign and calming to feel his anger fizzle out without an explosion. His body turns limp, his fists unclench and his head hangs. Lance’s fingers run miles through Keith’s hair, over and over until the repetition of their movement is the only thing Keith remembers come morning.

“Did I hurt you?” Keith’s face is still suffocated by the blanket, but he knows Lance is there, can feel his thigh pressed to the sole of Keith’s foot.

“Not important.”

And maybe Lance doesn’t want Keith to worry, but it doesn’t work because that wasn’t an answer and it makes Keith want to rip his hair out and shake Lance until he finds out what he did last night. Instead he shifts his legs, curling them almost imperceptibly closer and Lance reads it loud and clear so he says, even though he doesn’t want Keith to worry.

“Yes, but it’s fine now.”

Keith has to say sorry. Lance knows Keith has to say sorry. He will insist that it’s not necessary, but he knows Keith has to. So he does and Lance only nods in response but somehow Keith hears it from his blanket cocoon, face-first against a lumpy pillow with his mouth full of cotton.

Lance shuffles his way through the sea of blankets to find Keith’s arm and tug him closer, against the only cold body that has ever held solid in Keith’s presence. His voice is low and soothing when it flows easily over Keith but his words mean nothing when Keith opens his eyes and sees Galra colours blooming on Lance’s cheek.

“I did that,” he whispers, fingers raising to brush the mark. Lance’s face is impossibly cold (calming, worrying) and Keith swears he can feel a pulse despite the placing of his fingers. It’s as though Lance’s body is screaming out to him, screaming to stop, back away, don’t touch him. Keith doesn’t deserve to have cold spreading across his skin and bringing him back from the edge of nothing. He doesn’t deserve to be held steady or reassured or cupped in a palm of cool glass. Lance is the last stitch holding Keith together and he feels it coming undone with every new hole punched through the wall.

“It doesn’t even hurt,” Lance promises, but Keith doesn’t miss the way he shifts to avoid resting his cheek against the pillow or the way he bites his lip against the gasp of pain that rises under Keith’s touch. Keith can’t shake the knowledge that he doesn’t deserve this.

He turns away from Lance, pushes away the cool air that surrounds him. Lance doesn’t fight – Lance _never_ fights – and Keith can feel himself slipping back into a pool of burning rage. The hot water laps at his ankles, drawing him into its depths, and he lets himself fall willingly. Keith’s veins flow with hatred and he bleeds curses from the ripped skin at his knuckles. His ears ring with yells of pure, unbridled malice like an alarm reminding him of everything he doesn’t deserve. He begs himself to let go, to let the hatred consume him until he breathes pain and hostility, until he sinks into the face of the earth and flows with molten lava, until he burns out and disappears.

But cold hands slide their way between the layers of his clothes, tracing goosebumps along his skin and roaming the length of his horizon in mere seconds. They dig out his past and soften the edges with their gentle touch, until Keith – all corners and angles – feels himself grow smooth from their presence. Toes tuck around the inside of his ankles and his fever dies down. He cools like fresh baked goods, sweet and soft and kind in the absence of anger. And Lance comes full circle, like the final thread of the needle tied off in the last stitch Keith needs. He holds himself together with left over love that Lance paints onto the back of Keith’s eyelids. He holds himself together, for one more night at least.


End file.
